I would only own a car if absolutely necessary. I’m not the kind of person who sees it as an extension of myself. I and an automobile have never been on first name’s terms. 

For many, they’re an addiction, a love affair and an extension of the penis. The way we drive is a good indicator of our actual mental age: boy-racer in most cases. Like women, we pamper and caress them, and in turn they make us childish and irrational. Unlike women, they never refuse to have sex with us: whether it’s procreation (vital errands) or masturbation (pleasure drives). 

And what is it about car bores and all those frigging Jaguar numbers? Although you can’t deny they’re useful if you have a query about whether the local mechanic will tamper with your engine to ensure you’re back within a week.  

Anyway, despite these aversions, I still often find myself watching Top Gear – particularly the bit when the celebrity drives the timed lap. It’s a really well made programme, and it’ no surprise that the original version is the BBC’s biggest export and that its concept has been franchised the world over. 

Jeremy Clarkson is a curious case in that he is a journalist who applies his sense of humour to everything, but he’s not a comedian. I enjoy watching him on these panel shows with really left-wing comedians, as they clearly dislike him and his views and his attempts to be funny, but are clearly apprehensive he might lamp them after filming. 

A bit like how many might feel before a night out in Glasgow – details of our evening of Scottish literature and political debate at Copenhagen’s main library – but in the end a couple of pints soothes the nerves, a couple more loosens the tongue and another two leads to a rousing rendition of Del Amitri’s ‘Don’t Come Home Too Soon’ – together a perfect anaesthetic for the impending concussion. 

Talking of libraries, our restaurant review this week is of the Black Diamond’s Søren K , but if that’s too pricey, maybe you should try out another round of March stock clearance sales. Which is exactly the kind of event where a lovely little run-around comes in handy, although in this country, it’s a luxury right up there with the worst excesses of Imelda Marcos.